“Don’t make that face,” Jacey says.
“What face?”
“The ‘I might like someone who terrifies small planets’ face.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
We dissolve into giggles as the door chimes again and a new client floats in, dragging two luggage cases and a head full of holographic extensions. I wave her toward the consultation station and glance one more time toward the corner.
Voltar’s glasses have slipped down his nose. He pushes them up with one giant finger and pretends to study an ad for toenail lasers.
He looks up.
I look away.
My face burns.
Jacey catches me blushing and does a silent victory dance behind the product display. I resist the urge to hurl a styling wand at her head.
After work, the ride home is quiet.
The maglev hums beneath us, sleek and sterile, windows flickering with flashes of city light. I sit by the door, arms folded, trying to pretend the silence isn’t weird. Voltar’s next to me—close enough that I can smell his skin oil and the faint, spicy tang of his weapon solvent.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the salon.
I should be grateful. Peace and quiet. No dramatic explosions. No arguments with baristas. No six-limbed toddlers trying to climb him like a jungle gym.
Just… this.
Us.
I stare at the blurry skyline and count the seconds between station announcements. We pass a neon sign shaped like a squid in love. A billboard blinks an ad for synthe-lashes that respond to mood. Somewhere far off, a siren wails.
My brain’s full of static.
So I say the dumbest thing possible.
“You ever been in love?”
He doesn’t respond at first.
I glance sideways. His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. Just a tiny shift at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes slide toward me, golden and slow.
“Does orbital bombardment count?”
I blink. “What?”
“That’s how Vakutan males express romantic commitment.”
“You’re joking.”
He shrugs. “I once leveled a research station to avenge a broken engagement.”
“Stars.”
“She ghosted me. Took the cat.”
